


The Turning Point

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Implied Drug Use, origin of the Coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he solves a case sober, it’s for a lawyer looking for proof that evidence in a property dispute was tampered with. He doesn’t expect much for his troubles, partly because it was no trouble, no really, if people would just notice…</p><p>And partly because, he’s not looking for money. His funds are under Mycroft’s hated watch, and that irks him, but what irks him more is how necessary it is, because he knows what he’ll do with cash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turning Point

The first time he solves a case sober, it’s for a lawyer looking for proof that evidence in a property dispute was tampered with. He doesn’t expect much for his troubles, partly because it was no trouble, no _really_ , if people would just _notice_ …

And partly because, he’s not looking for money. His funds are under Mycroft’s hated watch, and that irks him, but what irks him more is how _necessary_ it is, because he knows what he’ll do with cash.

So he tries to turn down the payment, but the envelop is foisted upon him, and there is a tidy bundle of gratitude and good intentions inside, and _god he could kill himself with this money_.

He could end the boredom, the boredom this ridiculously simple case had barely dented, and now it is over and here is money, and money doesn’t buy happiness, but it buys _distraction_.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it. He thinks about it all day, and then, close to dusk, as the shops are closing, he finds himself walking familiar streets, posh streets with leering alleys, with an upper class flavor of _sordid_.

He’s so close to turning into the alley, his alley, and he knows Mycroft won’t be far behind, and part of him is panicking at how little he cares, it’s not so far to fall, he’s not that high up, it’s not like anyone expects him to get that far from the gutter, he’ll never be rid of the stink and stain of it anyway, what’s the use resisting –

With a whole body shiver, Sherlock turns and twists and changes his direction and walks into the shop next to his alley. He stands inside, breathing heavy, harsh lungfuls of air.

“Excuse me, sir, but we are closing.”

Sherlock blinks at the attendant in his neat suit, with his newly married smile, his sick mother worry lines, his no longer athletic posture. How long has he been here, staring, panicking?

“If sir could make a selection…? Or return to-morrow?”

Sherlock races through the alleyways of his own mind and makes a decision. He reaches past the man, pulls a great coat forward. “This,” he says harshly. “How much?”

“A handsome selection, sir.” The man retreats to his counter, does some quick numbers with pencil and notepad, everything the old fashioned way, everything orderly, _telling_. Sherlock’s brain is on fire with want.

Sherlock’s veins are on fire with it, too.

“A total sum of 2,288 pounds, sir. How will sir be paying?”

Sherlock can tell the attendant doesn’t quite believe he’ll make the purchase. He doesn’t quite believe it himself, but then he is taking the envelop from his breast pocket of his jacket, and he is taking the money, all 3,000 of it, and putting it down on the counter.

“To include tailoring and tip,” he says, his throat rasping. “No change needed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Accepting the money without further comment, the attendant smiles a prim little smile. “We can take measurements now, if it pleases sir.”

Sherlock nods once, stands still, lets the tape measure snake around his limbs and body, lets it remind him he’s still here and not next door, _not next door_.

“Simple enough – we can have the coat ready for delivery or pickup in three days’ time.”

“Pickup,” Sherlock grinds out.

And he walks out, and walks past the alley, and he sees the black car pass by him, and gives it not a second glance.

He barely has money to buy a take out for himself over the next three days, but he’s not in the alley, and if starving is the cost of not drowning, then starve he will.

Three days pass, and he goes to the shop at the close, is once again the last customer, and the coat fits him, all 3,000 pounds’ worth of it, and it girds him like armor. It clads him like a promise, a testament, a vow.

He wraps the coat around himself, flips the collar up against the chill, and tucks his hands inside the pockets, and departs for Montague Street, wrapped up in the folds of his decision.

Never again.


End file.
